This Old House

What about my fading paint convinced you that I was unworthy of a fresh coat?

When did all the trudging about up and down my stairs become too much of an annoyance? The groaning treads of the third and fifth risers no longer an amusing quirk of my personality, but an affront. A harbinger of imminent collapse.

Did you tire of my air conditioner running all day long to keep pace with your demands? Of the hard to change lights of my ceiling fans?

It was my citrus trees, wasn’t it? The ones you once admired so? The reality of fallen, rotting fruit replacing the visions of freshly squeezed juice and cocktail parties.

Was it my picket fence? Oh, the picket fence. Its sagging posts and missing planks no longer capable of keeping the world out and the warmth in. My once benevolent grin now a snarling menace.

I offered safe haven. You made me a prison.

But don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. There will be others. In fact, here comes a nice looking couple now. They look excited. The boy wants to climb my walls. I bet he’d even sneak out onto my patio roof to watch the fireworks as yours once did. Did I ever tell you about that time?